Paying the Debt
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: "Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt." Considering how many silver eagles he'd picked up, Booker was starting to think he could cut out on the "bring us the girl" part of that deal.


**Paying the Debt**

I'm starting to think that I could just find a parachute and end this right now.

I mean, that giant buzzbird isn't after me. Every copper in this bloody city is, sure, but way I see it, they'd be fine if I just buggered off right now. They want me, the False Shepherd, away from their Lamb. If I made like an angel and flew away right here, right now, no harm, no foul right?

Well, okay, maybe that's a bit naive, given how many of said coppers I've killed – I've never even heard of Columbia, but this is a place that actually exists, it's got a head of state, and I suppose even a theocracy can negotiate extradition with countries such as the United States or France (poor girl still thinks I'm taking her to Paris). That, and I've killed firemen, and handymen, and patriots, and gun turrets, and…well, I've killed/destroyed a lot of things. No mystery there – I knew what it was like to kill people for over decades. I've killed people that my country treated like "things" (and still does) and I've carried out no shortage of violence since then. But here, when I'm killing people, there's no shortage of things to pick up.

Some of those things are weird – there's a predilection for these coppers to be carrying stuff like cake and pineapples around. Now, that's a mystery in of itself mind you, as to where the heck they're even getting pineapples from. Can pineapples grow this high up? Granted, it's a bit warmer here than what I'd expect from a city in the clouds, but this ain't the tropics. But even if they are growing, why are the coppers, firemen, handymen, and everyone else carrying so much food in their pockets? Like, I'm not really complaining per se – shooting, running, and killing takes a toll on you, and food can help patch that up. But why?

But that's nothing compared to the other fruits of murder, and no, I'm not talking about apples or bananas. I'm not even talking about the guns and ammo I keep picking up. Like, sure, I can only carry a few guns at a time, but I've found that carrying ammo, even RPG shells, ain't a problem. No. It's money. Lots of money. Like, lots and lots of money.

It's a bit ghoulish to be robbing from the dead, but it isn't the first time I've done it – Wounded Knee comes to mind, just like it always does. But whatever I took from the Indians, money wasn't among them. In contrast, the people I kill here have no shortage of it. Silver eagles, they're called. Haven't seen any bronze or gold eagles, so I figure that if this is Columbia's equivalent of the dollar, they're without cents. And so far, I've got hundreds of them. Enough, I'd wager, to pay off my own debts.

I'm a bit cautious about that though. I wagered a lot, and that's how I wound up in debt in the first place. But still, Columbia is a place. Even if I somehow escaped knowing about it (must be the booze), obviously at least some people back home would know about it. I figure there'd be some way I could exchange these eagles for dollars. I do that, I wipe away the debt, and I don't need to worry about bringing some girl back to New York while lying that I'm taking her to Paris.

"Need some money?"

Jesus Christ, is she a mind reader? If she is, I'm kind of screwed. I glance round at her.

"Here, catch."

She tosses me a silver eagle as she always does. I catch it – heads. It's always heads. Or always seems to be heads, because it's statistically impossible that every time Elizabeth tosses a coin over, it's going to land the same way up. Must be my imagination, set into motion by those weirdos I keep running into.

"You okay Mister DeWitt?"

I look up from the coin. "Pardon?"

"You're staring at that coin like you've seen a ghost."

"Oh, it's nothing." I pocket the silver eagle. "Really."

How much is this worth? The coins look the same, but the numbers stamped on them aren't. They can go from 1, to 100, even 200.

"Right. Okay then…"

She doesn't sound convinced. She doesn't look convinced. I could try and do some convincing, but then, I'd probably make things worse. Sooner or later, dear girl's going to find out that I'm not taking her to the City of Love, but rather the City of…well, whatever the city of New York is, and having walked its streets for over fifteen years, trust me, love isn't something you find there readily (lust, maybe). I look at her, look at the way she looks at me, and I know I'm not feeling love, and I know I'm not feeling lust, but I'm feeling something. Something that makes me feel guilty about the whole Paris-New York thing. Might be more humane to just tell her the truth now and go my separate way. Find a parachute (city's got to have one), land wherever, and make my way back home. Might be more humane. Might be moral. Might be able to pay off my debts with blood money.

"You sure you're okay?" she asks. She gives me a smile that cuts through me like ice. Enough to snap me out of the delusion – the girl's the sure thing. I can't risk my life on just bugging out on the hope that I can exchange these eagles for dollars, and that it'll be enough to pay the debt. Might further stain my soul, but at least it'll keep my body intact.

"I'm fine," I murmur.

"You sure? You look a bit pale."

"Said I'm fine, and I'd appreciate you not poking your nose where it ain't needed."

"Oh." She draws back, unable to hide her hurt. "Of course."

Poor kid. First person she's seen in years, and she can't properly latch onto me without me striking back. Might be the False Shepherd, but that still means I've got to herd this lamb, and hit her with the stick if need be.

"Come on," I say. I gesture further up the wharf. "Need to keep moving."

"Of course, Mister DeWitt."

I don't tell her to call me Booker. I don't say anything. I've been able to keep guilt to myself for nearly twenty years. I can do it for a few more hours.

However long it takes to bring them the girl, and wipe away the debt.

* * *

_A/N_

_Yes, this is basically my thoughts while playing _Infinite _transcribed into a oneshot. I couldn't help but wonder if Booker could use all the money he's looted from enemies to wipe away his supposed debt. Like, what would the silver eagle be worth on the stock exchange?_

_Anyway, drabbled this up._


End file.
